Kicker

By Matt Brown

Mickey Doyle had the opportunity of a lifeti me. As an undersized minor pro soccer goalie from Liverpool, hed achieved as much as his body would let him. Then, on a fl uke, he discovered a new talent, and became the kicker for a professional football team in America. His journey took him overseas to a land more foreign than he had imagined, but in other ways it was very familiar. His inner journey wound through ambiti on, happiness, solitude, friendship, and love. But ulti mately, he crossed the ocean in search of himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456803902

Matt Brown

Matt Brown is an author and broadcaster based in the UK. He has written eight books for children, including Mutant Zombies Cursed My School Trip which won the FCBG Children's Book Award in 2020. Before dyeing his hair grey for fashion reasons, Matt presented on some of the UK's most popular TV shows and he has been on the radio a lot, hosting shows and making documentaries. He is a passionate promoter of reading for pleasure in schools as well as an advocate of saving public libraries. Matt is not considered dangerous (unless you get him talking about either his favourite trousers or Manchester United). Chats with him on either of these subjects may lead to death-by-boredom. Also, he does NOT look good in hats.

Book preview

Kicker

A Novel

Matt Brown

Copyright © 2010 by Matt Brown.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4568-0389-6

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-0390-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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82964

Contents

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1

All men should strive to learn before they die

what they are running from, and to, and why.

~ James Thurber

Some blokes just can’t run that fast. It’s not our fault; it’s just our makeup. What they ought to do is line all the lads up in the gymnasium and run them forty yards. Then take all but the top one or two aside and tell them, Look fellas, by all means, keep playing football. It’ll make you better fans. But you’re not going to be major league footballers. So forget all the bloody underdog stories. They’re only setting you up for heartache. You’re not bloody fast enough and that’s final. Now bugger off so we can work with the lads with some potential. Then they could take their whittled down group a few years later and line them up on a wall, telling them, Alright lads, all of you shorter than the red line, bugger off. You’re too bloody short. And any of you shorter than the black line can stay, but with the understanding that at some point you’ll likely be cut from a team just because you’re too bloody short too. But stick around for now because we need bodies to run a decent practice with the real players.

Perhaps I’m a bit jaded. But I’m also a realist. I’ve seen what happens to the castoffs who believe for too long that they’ll be the exception. They forsake their schooling, scoffing at the authorities who, at the end of the day, were just trying to save them.

I was an exception. When it was clear that I was too slow, I was relegated to keeper. And I was good. Very good. I could sense where shooters would go, read their movements, anticipate where the shot would come from, when, how hard, and then I’d time my movements perfectly to get in the way. I was, as they say, a natural. But alas nature had the last laugh. At fourteen, I stopped growing, cursed to remain 5'9 for the rest of my natural life . . . until I get old enough to start shrinking of course. And if you’ve watched professional soccer, you know that the keepers are all about six and a half feet tall, with wingspans like pterodactyls. The ones who aren’t are still six feet with arms like orangutans, or like those dolls that you can stretch. Only you’ve stretched them so far they won’t regain their original shape. I forget what they’re called.

At any rate, the one thing I could do better than anyone else was kick the ball.

February in Liverpool is gray, damp, and cold. Although the city has evolved and become more metropolitan, it remains, at its heart, blue collar and tough. To Mickey Doyle, it was simply home. Baptized Michael Shannon Doyle, he was a proud Liverpudlian, or ‘Scouser’ to the locals. The weather, the smell down by the docks, the narrow streets, and the crowded pubs were like comfort food to Mickey.

Mickey’s father had come from Ireland at fifteen, proud and feisty. For all that Liverpool had become, ‘Ole Shannon Doyle’ or ‘Shanty’ as he was known, wore its history on his face. Weathered, scarred, and graced with a charmingly crooked smile. He worked the shipyards, and he was the shipyards. He sought nothing that he couldn’t receive from his work, his wife, his children, and of course, the Muddy Anchor Pub. Both father and son were lean and strong, hair as wild and dark as the winter sea.

But for all the physical similarities with his father, Mickey was, in mind, very much his mother’s boy. Elizabeth Wells was a local girl who had fallen for Shanty’s smile, his honesty, and perhaps most of all, his simplicity. The daughter of a University professor and a nurse, she was sharp as a blade. Despite her acceptance to Cambridge University, she opted for the University of Liverpool to stay close to her Shanty. After five years and the arrival of two young daughters, she completed her degree and began teaching at a local primary school. The folks in their neighbourhood respected Elizabeth the same way they adored Ole Shanty, as evidenced by the fact that in over fifty years, she had not become Liz, Lizzie, Beth, or Betty. She was to all, and would always be Elizabeth, or the beloved Mrs. Doyle.

Mickey had inherited the best of both. Like his mother, he valued knowledge, not as a stepping stone to better things, but rather as a virtue by its own right. To live well was to understand the world around you. And by this criterion, Mickey lived very well. He was inquisitive and well read: in philosophy, psychology, science, and literature. But to everyone’s surprise, save perhaps his parents, Mickey spurned his many opportunities in formal education to pursue his greatest passion: football.

To Mickey, the principles of physics, biology, and mathematics informed the sciences of training, kicking technique, goaltending and injury rehabilitation. The fields of philosophy, psychology, sociology, and history could be applied directly to game preparation, motivation, player development, how best to help his teammates, how to outsmart opponents, and how to approach the game tactically.

But for all his knowledge, Mickey’s common touch was as prominent as his father’s. He liked people almost as much as he liked soccer. And his quick wit and playfulness disarmed and delighted the people around him, save those who found themselves on the receiving end of his sarcasm if he was frustrated, tired, or too full of alcohol (not an infrequent occurrence). But even then, most would agree that the target of his jabs had usually done something to deserve it.

One would have expected someone as blessed as Mickey to be very much at peace. But alas, the one thing he couldn’t have consumed his thoughts daily. And the ache was fueled by the observation that the most deserving only occasionally inherited the ultimate gifts.

I don’t dislike Rodney Banks because he’s talented or occupies a roster spot that I or any of my mates would kill for; I dislike him because he’s a wanker. Plain and simple. He’s lazy, stupid, arrogant, and, worst of all, spoiled bloody rotten. How can you chalk up to jealousy my contempt for a man who asked if Tony Blair was a midfielder for Chelsey? Or who claims that the bubbles in his cola make him run fast? Or that, this is classic, thought that our first division club would benefit greatly from a trade for Al Qaeda! In fairness, Allen Clyde is a brilliant defender for the Celtics, but you get my point.

Alright . . . I admit, I’m jealous of the gifts that Rodney possesses, but the real aggravation is the fact that he’s never done anything to deserve them, and most certainly has never demonstrated that he respects or appreciates them. And he is bloody gifted. He can run like a cheetah, and with an ounce of hard work, could become one of the greatest natural goal-scorers the game has ever seen. But that potential will go untapped because he has no inclination to work hard or really learn the game, and he uses his consistent top-15 scoring rank as a reason to change nothing and listen to no one.

Truth be told, it bothers me that it was Rodney who was so instrumental in the event that would alter the course of my life dramatically. Wanker.

It was meant as a joke. It was two days after Superbowl Sunday, and Sergio Mendes, the Liverpool Premier Division defender, brought an American football to practice. A field full of world-class athletes looked uncharacteristically awkward flinging the ‘pigskin’ around their practice field, and even more so trying to catch it. By the time Mickey and the third division team were making their way onto the field, the premier players had abandoned their game of catch for a more comfortable, but still comical, competition of kicking the odd-shaped ball over the net. A Eurosport cameraman, setting up for a post-practice interview with head coach, Jurgen Jannsens, turned the camera on the spectacle. Players laughed as each other would shank the football to the left or right, and they celebrated with every successful stroke of the ball. Ever the antagonist, Rodney Banks honed in on the third division keeper.

Hey, Doyle! Have a lash. You’re still looking for a sport, aren’t you? Banks poked.

Piss off, Mickey mumbled. Then in a face-saving recovery, Has anyone explained to Banks that the Superbowl is not the same as a wok?

The players of both teams chuckled at the cut, then awaited an inevitable retaliation from Banks.

Right then, tosser, let’s see you have a go? Fifty pounds says you can’t put it over from here, Banks replied, pinning the ball about forty yards from the net.

Mickey had never seen an American football up close, much less kicked one. But the chance to stick it to Banks was irresistible, regardless of the potential cost. The cheers and laughter swelled again as Mickey lined up to attempt the kick. Harold Sheffield, who had found the feel for kicking the ball as well as any of the others, whispered from nearby.

Almost in the middle, Mick. Under it a little. Otherwise pretty much the same.

Even with a couple extra stutter steps, Mickey contacted the ball almost perfectly, sending it safely over the net, almost dead center. The players teased and patted their irate striker, rustling his hair and, clearly, his feathers.

Shit luck! Banks protested, double or nothing!

Sure, Rodney, and move it back 10, Mickey added, in spite of himself.

Slightly to the right, but still comfortably over.

By the time the players relented, Banks was down 200 pounds, and Mickey had gone 5 for 8, including a complete shank, and a spectacular near-miss of almost seventy yards (wide but not short). The first-division team made their way off the field, still buzzing, while the third division squad went about their warm-up. A delighted Eurosport camera man forgot his Jannsens interview, and headed back to the studio with his prize.

I like being around the lads on the Premier Division team. Not because they’re so good, but rather because most of them view the game with the same reverence that I do. The Rodney Banks-type is really an exception. Most of his teammates are nearly as gifted as he is, but also exhibit equal amounts of character in the way they prepare for and play the game.

Second division is a mix of the young lions and the veteran ‘almost’s, even the oldest of which cling to the possibility of a call-up, should they get on a roll at the same time as an injury. It’s a bit like the slots, I reckon; it hardly ever happens, but happens just enough to keep them playing, and believing the next lucky one will be them.

The third division is quite an interesting stew. You’ve got the talented-but-mental-weaklings, the under-talented-mental-ironmen, and virtually everything else in between. But for most, the writing has been on the wall for some time, and their spirits are either broken or bent on why their place with the club is someone else’s fault. So in many cases, they’re just going through the motions, plugging through the daily task of accepting that they may be as far up the mountain as their legs or wills will carry them.

The talented underachievers are viewed as the most tragic. For some reason, the talented that fail to develop drive, intelligence, or resilience are declared the poorest souls of all. What a terrible waste of talent they say. Whereas the physically mediocre who have gotten to that level through hard work, determination, ironclad focus, and courage are meant to be proud of what we’ve accomplished, lucky to have the opportunity or simply too bloody stubborn to know when to give up. We’re meant to find solace in the fact that we’re men of character. Bullocks. A 7-million quid salary, a vintage Jaguar, and a 4000 square foot flat overlooking the ocean are a smart trade-in for character. Damn, I hate that Rodney Banks!

Across the Atlantic, a man sat uncomfortably in traffic. He inched along, almost claustrophobic in the exhaust-filled Fort Pitt Tunnel. But the slow traffic was not the source of his discomfort. In truth, he’d have preferred to sit in the tunnel all day if it spared him the task that he had ahead of him. Moments earlier he’d received a call from the Pittsburgh Steeler’s All-Pro kicker, Justin Merritt. The message would have to be delivered in person to team owner, Joe Kenney. Mr. Kenney’s ‘manhood code’ precluded the delivery of bad news over the phone. Look me in the eyes and say it or don’t say it at all. Although he was only the messenger, the young assistant general manager began to sweat as he fidgeted for the unsympathetically fast elevator ride up the Kenney building.

Good morning, Ross, the receptionist chimed. Looks like you took the stairs, she poked, noticing the shine on his forehead. Then her face changed as she detected something else. What’s wrong?

Ross Killackey overadjusted his tie, now crooked on the other side, and spoke softly, Justin hurt his knee.

Training? she whispered back, now understanding the gravity of Killackey’s mood.

Waterskiing, . . . in Hawaii, he winced, still barely able to believe it.

He was on the phone a minute ago. Hold on, she said as she picked up her phone and tapped a button. Mr. Kenney, Mr. Killackey is here to see you. A pause as she listened. No, but I think it’s something important. She looked up at Ross, He’ll see you now . . . good luck.

Rosco! Mr. Kenney boomed affectionately. Think you can barge in whenever you want? he joked. He quickly read his employee’s face and then spoke softly, What is it?

On the other side of the usually soundproof door, the receptionist jumped at Kenney’s exclamation.

Waterskiing?!!

Ross stood uncomfortably beside the chair opposite Mr. Kenney’s desk, unsure whether he should sit. Instead he stood awkwardly, his hand alternating between his hip and the chair (steadying himself), occasionally and discretely wiping his interminably leaky forehead.

Jesus Christ, Killackey! Don’t we have something in his contract about crap like that?

Ross nodded, relieved that the rage couldn’t be turned in any meaningful way on him. Yes, sir. It’s a clause in all of their contracts, he answered softly.

Well we could string him up for breach! Does he know that? Kenney ranted, never really entertaining the idea.

Yes, sir. He knows we have that option.

Ross then stood and listened to a prolonged monologue about ‘kids these days’ and ‘spoiled millionaire athletes’ before Kenney finally focused on the problem at hand.

Siddan before you fall dan, Killackey, Kenney finally insisted in his native Pittsburgher tongue, never more pronounced than when he was upset. Why are you sweating anyway? It’s freakin’ February! . . . Well what the hell are we gonna do?!

I’ll get on this right away, sir.

"And having Carle do the punting and the kicking is not a solution. I placekick better than him!" Kenney went on, referring to a failed experiment four years earlier.

I know, Mr. Kenney.

Do you, Ross? Kenney challenged sincerely. This team is right there. We’re in striking distance to win it all again, just four years after our last title. That’s no small feat in the cap era! Ah shit, you know all that. You had a hand in building this team, he added, momentarily revealing his soft spot for the young executive. You and Ray put your heads together on this. First priority! We’re six weeks . . . not even . . . five weeks, four days from mini-camp, he corrected, glancing at his calendar. We can’t have any chinks in the armor. This year, Ross, . . . is our Goddam year! Anything else will be a failure.

Yes, Mr. Kenney. I understand completely. We’ll . . . I’ll fix this.

Ross sat slumped over the bar at ‘Hightops’, down the street from Heinz Field, still picking at his fries after he was full.

Why do you have soccer on the big screen, Steph? he pouted to the waitress.

She gestured to the table nearest the screen with her head as she refilled his IC Light. Brits here on business.

Then Ross’s body shot up straight as he watched a replay of a sixty yard field goal by a curly-haired soccer goalie.

American football has a decent following in the U.K., actually, but I think it will always be something of a novelty. Most of us grow up conditioned to the flow and continuity of football, or I suppose ‘soccer’ in America. And the closest cousin of American football is rugby, but it too is fairly continuous. And its players don’t look horribly out of place in the cue at the store. American football brings to the screen all of the stereotypes that we hold about America. It’s about being the biggest, strongest, fastest, meanest, loudest, and most willing to step on another bloke’s throat to win. To most Brits, begging your pardon, it’s something of a freak show, featuring characters that would fit nicely into a video game or professional wrestling, or perhaps one of those cartoons that parents let their children watch only because it’s a cartoon and they haven’t stopped to watch the thirty seconds it would take to find it offensive.

Mickey sat at the Muddy Anchor with Abbey, his friend-since-primary-school-soulmate-without-ever-actually-hooking-up-but-acting-suspiciously-like-a-married-couple . . . type . . . other. But to avoid an unwieldy acronym, we’ll just say they were each other’s best mate. Abbey knew Mickey better than anyone, including his parents, and even, at times, better than he knew himself. She was his match intellectually and every bit as sarcastic, which he loved.

Enough about Rodney-shagging-Banks, Mickey! God, when you go on about him like this, you sound like a worse wanker than he is! she chastised as she tipped her pint.

Mickey was momentarily stunned by the cut, then managed a smirk and a shrug when he realized she was right.

Just felt good to stick it to him is all, he muttered.

Noted. Now can we move on to something less pathetic please? she teased, punching him in the shoulder across the table. Tell me about the lass your mum introduced you to. Carol was it? Are you going to see her again? she pressed on.

Mickey shrugged, Don’t think so. Nice and all, but not much of a spark, I’m afraid.

Pity. I thought she was quite pretty. And she seemed very sweet, Mickey. Why don’t you take her out again before rushing to judgment on the poor girl? It’s not always a lightning bolt.

"Because you fancy her? That’s my ticket to love, isn’t it? ‘Really not feeling it, love, but Abbey thinks you’re the bomb so . . . what the fuck . . . will you marry me’?"

Abbey nearly choked on her beer laughing, then shook her head, You’re such a wanker.

Besides, I think I might have a go with Jennifer again, he added sheepishly, not unnoticed by Abbey.

Oh FUCK! Please be fucking kidding! She’s bloody awful! God Mickey, sometimes I wish I wasn’t married so I could shag you when you’re that desperate. That way you wouldn’t make such God awful decisions with women, she teased.

Bullocks. You never shagged me before you were married and I made even worse decisions back then, Mickey poked at himself. Besides, you don’t know her. Why do you have to break her down?

Miss tanning salon silicon? Oh, I know her. Besides, she’s not a girl you get to know; she’s a metaphor for how shallow men are . . .

That you resent, I know, Mickey countered.

You tosser, Abbey jabbed, conceding his point with her reply.

That’s right. Between times, I am a tosser. And I’d like to shrink those ‘between intervals’ if that’s alright with you. Mickey carried on as he reached into his pocket for his phone, You and Mr. British Airways get to bonk bi-weekly and I get to endure those tender early stages of budding relationships. Translation: right-hand Mary, week after week?

Mickey’s phone vibrated on the table.

That’s the little tart now, isn’t it? Abbey jabbed.

Mickey glanced at his phone curiously. "It says Pennsylvania."

Hello?

Abbey sat quietly, trying to read Mickey’s face that eventually registered dismissive disbelief. She shrugged and mouthed ‘who is it?’

Then Mickey finally spoke, Mr. Killackey, is it? Right, could you hold on for just one moment? Mickey covered his phone and leaned across the table. You’re a techno-nerd; is there a way of changing the call display to something else?

Abbey smiled, I’m sure there is, but not by anyone you know, she snickered.

Mickey finally dared to entertain the call as legitimate and listened intently, looking increasingly stunned. Finally he blinked, with something dawning on him.

Well, I’m currently under contract with my club here, Mr. Killackey . . . well . . . I suppose you could ask . . . sorry, Mr. Killa . . . fine, Ross, this is all very sudden. Perhaps you could call the manager of our club in the morning, then call me back. That way I’ll have time to digest it. Mickey glanced up at Abbey, his eyes wide. She again probed with her expression.

Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow then. Thank you, Ross.

Mickey hung up the phone and stared at the table.

Who the bloody hell was that? Abbey asked impatiently.

Mickey muttered as he sat in his trance, Got to be someone shamming, someone who knows someone in Pennsylvania, he rationalized.

Who was it, Mickey? again from Abbey, this time more curious than impatient.

Well, . . . if it’s real . . . he paused, almost unable to say it out loud, that was the assistant general manager of an American football team called the Pittsburgh Steelers. He wants me to come for some sort of trial.

They looked at each other for a long moment, both of their heads dizzy with the idea.

Someone’s having you on, Mickey. This can’t be real, Abbey finally concluded.

Mickey shrugged, well, if it’s a joke, it’ll take real stones to call my general manager and attempt to negotiate a release, he laughed.

Another long pause.

But what if, Mickey? Abbey wondered out loud. Would you go?

I’d be mad not to, wouldn’t I? he replied surely.

I guess, Abbey answered, less convinced. But think of all the other doors you closed because you wanted to play football, Mickey.

"Come on, Abbey! Those guys are rock stars in